Severance
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Sam tries to find solace after Dean's death. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

**This story features my only OC, Stella. To meet her, read Normal. If you don't want to read that, just know hat she's kind of the crabby auntie-figure for the boys, who Dean got to know while Sam was at Stanford. Please review, and as always, all reviews are answered on my blog.**

**

* * *

**

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn;_

**_At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them._**

Sam sighed as he turned off the main road and rumbled down the gravel trail into the woods. The phone bleated on the seat next to him and he glanced down at the display. Bobby. Again. Sam picked up the phone and pitched it into the backseat. It seemed like the damn thing had been ringing non-stop. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, even Missouri. He hadn't picked up any of the calls, and the voicemail icon had been blinking at him accusingly for days.

Sam pulled to a stop beside the big red barn. The sky was darkening to a dark green with the threat of an afternoon storm, and a gust of hot wind set the leaves in the trees to chittering. One of the horses poked its head over its stall door, assessing the chance that carrots might be forthcoming. Sam unfolded himself from the car and walked over to gently stroke the mare's velvety nose. She pricked her ears forward and whuffled appreciatively, then ducked her head to bump at Sam's pockets with her nose, sniffing for treats. All he had was a half-eaten granola bar, stippled here and there with pocket fuzz, but she took it gratefully. The soft bristles on her lips tickled his palm.

Sam turned as he heard the squeak and slam of the hinges on the screen door, and his heart tightened as Stella bumped out onto the porch in her wheelchair. She squinted out into the yard, and a broad grin crossed her face as she spotted the Impala. She shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled wider when she caught sight of Sam. But then Sam saw the smile on her face fade as she realized that he was alone, and he could read her lips as she formed the words.

_Oh, no._

Sam's heart clenched, and he ducked his head and trudged over to the porch. He slowly walked up the wheelchair ramp, hands jammed into his pockets and clenched into fists. By the time he reached Stella she was dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her fists were clenched tightly, and when she reached out for Sam he could see the skin stretched taut between the valleys of her tendons, and there were livid half-moons where her fingernails had bitten the flesh of her palms.

Sam took one of her hands and squeezed it, felt it tremble in his grip. Stella took a deep and shaking breath. "Are you okay?" Her voice was rough with emotion. Two sad furrows were carved in her brow, and the scar slashing across her face seemed deeper than Sam had remembered it. She looked old, old and weary, as she wiped the salt from beneath her eyes.

Sam collapsed in a gangly heap in one of the weathered Adirondack deck chairs, feeling numb. Stella regarded him silently, her hooded eyes sad and gleaming with hard-fought tears. "How you holdin' up, bub?" she asked quietly.

Sam shook his head slowly. "I don't even know." He didn't know how to explain it, even if he wanted to. Something inside him was gone, leaving him a walking, talking, bleeding, hating, vengeful husk. "I just feel empty." He shook his head again. "I don't really even want to talk about it. I just needed to get away and this seemed like a good place."

Stella pinned him with a knowing glance and tucked a strand of errant hair behind her ear. "Bobby called. Said you were dodging his calls and he thought you might turn up here." Her jaw tightened. "Can't say as he told me why you were runnin', though. Stupid bastard trying to protect me, as usual."

"I'm tired of people treating me like fine china." Sam looked down at his battered hands, examining the busted-open knuckles, the torn fingernails. "Everybody is looking at me like I'm about to break down. I can't take it."

"Well, thanks for thinking I wouldn't do the same." The older lady quirked a sad half-smile and reached over to squeeze his forearm. "Come on inside, kid. Let's get some food into ya. You look half-starved."

The kitchen was as Sam remembered, pin-neat and quiet. The big calico cat, looking for all the world like a furry meatloaf, stared down at him from the top of the refrigerator. Pip the corgi dog was wagging lazily at his feet, his muzzle whiter than when Sam had last seen him. Somewhere in the house, a smoke detector chirped, crying for a new battery.

"Think maybe you could put a new battery in that thing while you're here?" Stella pulled open the fridge and produced two bottles of imported beer. She handed one to Sam.

He looked down at the fancy label. "What, no PBR?" It was a joke with no mirth, more to break the silence than to elicit laughter.

Stella smiled drily. "Hey, just because I live in the middle of nowhere doesn't mean I got no class." She cracked hers open, then handed the bottle-opener to Sam. "You feel like maybe a shower and a nap before we eat?"

Sam nodded gratefully, feeling the itch of dirt and dried sweat on his skin.

"Upstairs on the right. Towels in the cabinet. And you can lie down in the guest room if you want. Might be a while before the grub is on." Stella attempted a smile, but it was unconvincing. Sam nodded and headed toward the stairs. As he began to climb, he heard the sound of a muffled sob. It brought a new sting of tears to his own eyes.

The bathroom was sparkling and homey, with soft fluffy towels so unlike the threadbare types Sam usually found in motel rooms. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the haunted eyes and their empty gaze. He barely recognized himself. He only saw a shell. He stripped and turned on the shower, stepping beneath the stinging spray of steaming water.

As the water washed over his skin, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His muscles, aching and tired, relaxed in the warmth, and suddenly he felt so tired that he could barely stand. He slowly sank into a seated position, wrapping his arms around his knees. The water poured down over him like a hot rain, soaking his hair.

He didn't know how long he sat there, crying, only that the water eventually ran cold. He stepped out, shivering, and wrapped himself in one of the soft, fragrant towels from the cabinet. A series of thumps in the hall caught his attention and he poked his head out. Stella was about halfway up the steps, hauling herself up each riser with her arms. Sam flushed, fighting the urge to go grab her and carry her up. Somehow he knew that she wouldn't thank him, and frankly might resort to violence. She struck him as being a biter. And the fact that he was clad in nothing but a towel was another minus. He settled for calling out, "Can I get you somethin', Stell?"

Stella stopped, puffing with exertion. She looked for a moment like she was going to decline, but then shrugged. "Can you go into the closet at the end of the hall and grab me a sack of salt?"

As Sam opened the closet door, his eyebrows rose. The shelves were stocked full of old soda bottles, stripped of their labels. They were marked with black marker, each bearing a different potion. "Dead sea salt. Nightshade. Taraxacm. Goofer dust." He read under his breath. "Nice bottling system there, Stell. Very classy."

"What did you expect me to put them in, the Holy Grail?"

Sam smiled, and grabbed a small sack of kosher salt from one of the shelves. He tossed it down to Stella, who caught it one-handed. "About an hour 'til dinner. Think you can wait?" she asked. He nodded, and she started to slide back down the stairs, her strong arms flexing and relaxing.

Sam walked into the guest room and found the cat lying curled on the bed. Sam stepped into his boxers and then, succumbing to the aching weariness in his body, sank down onto the soft yellow and green quilt. The cat, chirping a gentle meow, stood and circled once, then curled up against his side, rumbling a quiet purr. Sam closed his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his muscles. Sleep came quickly, and he didn't hear the first low roll of thunder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the wait on the update. I have no excuse. :( Please don't punish me by not reviewing. **

_

* * *

_

_He kept seeing it in his dreams, the blood blooming bright like a poppy on Dean's shirt. There was no sound, only the Technicolor gore seeping across Dean's chest, spreading and spreading until it was all Sam could see, until he suddenly thought he would drown in it._

Sam swam slowly back to consciousness, the crimson fading to black, first hearing the tip-tapping of rain on the roof. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was, because the bed in which he slept was too soft and smelled too nice to be a motel bed. He opened one eye, taking in the gray light of a rainy day. The cat had moved to the crook of his knees and she raised her head, staring at him with half-closed eyes. A knot formed and swelled in his chest, just as it had every time he woke from sleep ever since…ever since it happened.

He slowly sat up, passing a hand through his hair, and glanced at his watch. He'd slept for almost four hours, which surprised him a bit. Sleep hadn't come easily lately. The same dream always stole his peace, and left him feeling as weary and drained as if he hadn't slept at all. He felt lucky if he tacked up a whole hour. The cat chirped a purr and pressed against his hand, demanding that he pet her. He did so, stroking her soft fur and knuckling the sleep from one eye.

A low roll of thunder grumbled and the cat leapt from the bed, tail held high. Sam caught the rich aroma of pot roast and his mouth began to water. His recent diet of candy bars and whiskey suddenly seemed foolish, so he stood and stretched. As he stumbled down the stairs, he could hear clattering in the kitchen.

Stella was draining a pot of potatoes in the sink, the steam rising around her like fog. She glanced at Sam and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Be useful and set the table, bub." As Sam started setting out plates and glasses, Stella dumped the potatoes into a bowl and started mashing them up with a large glob of butter. "You sleep okay?"

Sam made a noncommittal sound and began to lay out silverware. The table was already laden with a small beef roast, tender and falling apart, with rolls and corn and salad. Stella handed him the bowl of potatoes and gestured for him to sit.

Sam sank into a chair, taking a deep pull of the smells rising from the table. He wasn't quite sure how Stella had pulled such a meal together so quickly, but he was suddenly glad she had. He could barely remember his last real meal. His stomach gave a grumbling lurch and his mouth began to water.

Stella wheeled in across from him and flicked the brake on her chair with her thumb. Sam picked up his fork but stopped short when Stella bowed her head, eyes closed. Sam looked sideways, uncomfortable and, inexplicably, angry. After a short moment Stella opened her eyes again and, ignoring the tear that tracked down to her chin, she scooped up a huge spoonful of potatoes and slapped it onto Sam's plate.

Sam speared a hunk of roast and served Stella, then dropped some onto his own plate. Under the table, Pip bumped his leg, an unsubtle reminder that there was a hungry dog in the room. Sam forked up some meat and started to chew, but it turned to sand in his mouth as another tear dripped from Stella's chin.

"Sorry," she said gruffly, swiping the tear away with the heel of her hand.

Sam swallowed a sigh and took a bite of potato, though the pleasure in it was now lost. Pip bumped him again, so he cut off a square of roast and slipped it under the table. Pip's whiskers tickled his palm, and Sam could hear him smacking his lips, relishing the treat.

"When he pukes that up, it's all you," Stella said, raising an eyebrow. She paused, then asked again, "So didja sleep okay?"

"I guess. The backseat of the Impala isn't exactly a five-star, you know?"

Stella's mouth quirked. "I know it ain't my place, but you need to make sure to take care of yourself. You're lookin' rough."

Sam took a long pull on his beer and found he wished it were whiskey instead. "Yeah."

Stella looked at her plate, pushing some corn around with her fork. There was a long pause, and then she gusted out a breath. "Don't know about you, but I'm damned mad at him."

At the mention of Him, Sam's stomach twisted. He shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it, but somehow the words found their way out. "I didn't understand how Dad, how Dean, could look a demon in the face and make a deal. I didn't understand it, and it pissed me off. It went against everything Dad ever taught us." Sam looked at Stella with pained eyes. "I get it now."

"You're not gonna do something stupid are you?" Stella put down her fork and reached across the table, but Sam didn't take her hand.

Tears stung at Sam's eyes and he took a long pull at his beer, trying to swallow down the pain. "I let him down. I promised we'd find a way to save him, and I let him down."

Stella blinked away some tears of her own, the corners of her mouth twisting. "He wouldn't think so, Sam." She ran a knuckle under her eye. "He'd understand."

Sam looked down, breathing back the roar of rage that swelled at the back of his throat. "I have to get him back."

"You can't go being foolish like they were, Sam. Whatever mistakes they made, they made to save you, and to throw that away would be a wrong they couldn't forgive." Stella pushed her plate away. "This life done you a bad turn, Sam, but we all go to bones in the end."

"But we don't all go down to the pit, do we," snarled Sam in reply, but almost immediately felt ashamed. He looked away, staring down at the beer bottles lined up in front of him like little soldiers. He knew his anger wasn't for her.

"Don't think so highly of yourself. It ain't becoming." Stella's face was calm and smooth, but her eyes were like hard, cold diamonds. "We're all bound for that pit, I'd say. We've all sold our souls, living this life."

"He didn't deserve it!" Sam slammed his fist on the table, tipping his bottle over. Neither he nor Stella made any move to stop the beer flood from spreading across the tablecloth. Pip pressed himself against Sam's leg, eyeing him nervously. "He died in that house, on that cul-de-sac of the damned, and for what? For what?"

"For better or for worse, he died for you, boy." Stella's face softened. "Dean ain't the first friend I've lost. And he probably won't be the last. But that don't make it hurt any less. When it stops hurting, I'll know it's time for me to quit this world, 'cause it means part of my soul has finally given out on me." Stella reached across the table again and this time Sam slipped his hand into hers. "You can't stop the pain, but you have to fight, Sam. You have to go on, because otherwise they win."

Sam shook his head, anguished. "From the time that he was four, Dean never had a normal life. Never had a home, was never just a regular guy. He put everything into hunting, he gave up on normal. All he ever wanted was to fight for people, to save people. And now, in spite of all the good he's done, all the people he's saved, he's in hell. It's so unfair." A sob found its strangled way out of his throat.

"Of all the people he saved, he couldn't save himself," said Stella quietly. "I know."

It was like a dam had opened in Sam, and all the things he had been hiding came rushing out with unchecked power. "He's the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing I think of at night. I know he would want me to cowboy up, to keep going, but I don't know how. I don't know if I can."

Stella squeezed his hand and leaned forward to catch his gaze. Her eyes were hard. "If you can't get him back, then the best thing for you to do is make his sacrifice worth it. You go and kill as many of those bastards as you can. You make them pay for every drop of blood they've spilled. Make them pay."

And in that moment, something inside Sam broke, a switch flipped, and he somehow knew that things were going to change.

"**For anyone who is alone without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful."**

**-Albert Camus**


End file.
